Alide by Emma Lazarus

Early on the following morning Alide left the house alone. Her grave, preoccupied air, her firm, self-confident carriage, no less than her bourgeois attire, were sufficient protection for her in the city streets. She directed her steps towards the Cathedral, walking as securely and fearlessly as though she were in the meadows at home. She was sick at heart, faint and terrified at the shadow which she foresaw about to fall upon her life, and she had need of solemn meditation and prayer. It was not the hour of service, but the organ was playing, and there were a few worshipers scattered among the aisles. Not far from the entrance knelt a woman in mourning, her face buried in her hands, and her form occasionally convulsed by stifled sobs.

Alide could not fail to see her, and a sharp pang of pity smote her heart; but the stranger's grief was sacred, and at that moment beyond her compassion, and, averting her eyes, she glanced up at the altar, bowed her head meekly, folded her hands upon her breast, and sank down upon her knees.